Rating: NC-17 for violence, strong language, and graphic Spuffy.
Summary: Spike tries to put the pieces back together post-"Wrecked"
Archive: Glass Onion yes, others please ask.
Disclaimer: Grr, arrgh. Joss Whedon and (shudder) Marti Noxon made me do this. It is also the most purely self-indulgent fanfic I have contributed to the Whedonverse.
The smell of her drying blood made his stomach growl.
Dawn stumbled slightly as they hit an uneven patch of pavement, jogging her sore arm. He could hear the click as the bones shifted together, followed by the sharp catch of her breath. No scream, though. Summers women were tough.
"That's my brave girl," he encouraged the Little Bit, who pinched her lips together in a wan approximation of a smile.
Not so little anymore. The girl was burgeoning; the ripening curve of her once-bony hip fitted against his thigh like a promise. Buffy and her pals still treated her like a kid, apparently forgetting that they had already been averting apocalypses at her age. Not to mention necking with great bloody poofs of vampires.
The thin shoulders were shaking under his arm, and against his better judgment, he held her closer, all heat and fragility and fear.
"Willow - she really scared me tonight. I've never seen her like that before."
Pupils dilated to fathomless black pools, humanity swallowed up and drowned in their depths-
"What were you two doin' down here, anyway?" Spike asked, although he already knew at least part of the answer.
The teenager frowned. "She said - she said - she wanted to make things up to me - we were going to see a movie - but then she took me the long way around to run an errand - and she took me into this horrible place and left me with these scary, smelly people - and when she came back, she was all whacked." Dawn's chin was trembling with the effort not to cry. "She seemed all happy, but weird, and - and * mean* - and when the monster came after us, she wasn't even scared at first, like she didn't believe it was there."
Spike tightened his hand protectively on her good shoulder. He was beginning to feel weak and dizzy with hunger, but he forced his mind to focus on her story.
"And then I kicked it, and we ran, but it was too fast, and we stole this car, but Willow was all crazy, and we went right into a wall, and that's when it caught us." She sniffled, then swiped hastily at her face, embarrassed. "I think I peed my pants when it dragged me out from under the car."
Spike's nose had told him long before that this was indeed the case, but all he said was, "Right, well, you both got out of it okay. Nothin' to be afraid of now." But the sudden wave of bloodlust that swept over him belied his words. He clenched his jaw against the fierce ache in his teeth and swallowed hard.
"I know. I feel safe now. With you." Misinterpreting the pained expression on his face, she elaborated hurriedly. "Not in the sense of safe *with* you. 'Cause I know you're all dangerous and evil and everything. I just meant, safe in the sense that, um, you're so much the Big Bad that I don't need to worry about anyone *else* messing with us."
Spike sighed. "Yeah, all right, no need to overdo it. Truth is, I've got a big bloody soft spot when it comes to you, but don't let it get to your head." That got a real, if small, smile, which he met with a mock scowl. "And besides," he added, once his pangs had subsided somewhat, "promised your sis I'd look out for you."
"Speaking of Buffy," Dawn piped up after a pause, "were you helping her patrol the other night?"
"What night was that?" he asked, though he thought he could guess.
"Um, couple days ago... she was out all night, and when she came home in the morning, she was really sore."
Spike stifled a smirk with great effort and replied gravely, "Oh, yeah, that. Quite a night we had, all right."
"What happened? Really scary monsters?"
"Oh, yeah. Think your sis found the two-backed beast especially scary."
Dawn wrinkled her nose, perplexed. "Was that a new one?"
"Yeah, we'd never done one o' those before."
The ER at Sunnydale Hospital was relatively quiet this time of night. The intern assigned to see Dawn seemed hardly older than she, with his shiny, beardless face and unshadowed blue eyes.
"What do we have here?"
"Car accident," Spike supplied. "Think her left arm may be broke."
The intern eyed the other man's bleach job, scars, and leather with distaste. "You the driver?"
"He didn't have anything to do with it," Dawn put in. "He's a friend."
"Yeah, okay, whatever," the intern shrugged. "Why don't you come with me and we'll get you checked out." Spike moved to follow, but the younger man stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You wait here, sir. We'll let you know what we find."
The vampire scowled but complied, figuring that he wouldn't be much use to Dawn if the medics decided to throw him out. Once Dawn and her doctor had disappeared through the double doors, he perched on the edge of a somewhat grimy plastic bucket seat and reached for a cigarette.
"Excuse me, sir? Sir?" Spike raised his head to find himself face to face with a formidable black woman in nurse's scrubs. "You can't smoke in here." She pointed to a prominent sign on the wall beside him.
"Bloody hell," Spike muttered and stamped it out on the floor. This didn't seem to please the woman much, either, but damned if he was going to leave the ER, either to finish the cigarette or to get rid of it more discreetly.
When the nurse had huffed off, Spike leaned forward, rubbing his face with his fingertips. The buzz and pulse of the fluorescent lights made his eyes ache, and the smell of old blood overlaid with disinfectant sent his empty stomach swimming.
"Spike. *Spike*. Where's Dawn? How is she?"
He blinked, looked up again to behold Buffy, hands on hips, frown on face. "Slayer. The Little Bit's in with the doc. Haven't told me anythin' yet, but I think she'll be okay."
"Okay," Buffy repeated, taking a deep breath as if she'd just remembered how. "Okay." She brought her chin up with a distant, resolved expression that puzzled him. "Thanks for bringing her."
"No trouble, love, you know I-"
"I'll take it from here," she interrupted, not looking at him. "Go on home."
He got to his feet, reached for her hand, but she shrugged violently away and held herself apart from him. She was shaking. "Don't, Spike. Not here. I mean it. Go *home*."
Spike stood perfectly still for a moment. "How's the Wicca girl?"
Buffy closed her eyes, but not before he caught a glimpse of something flaring in them, rage and confusion and sorrow fighting for supremacy. "She's at home. She's upset, but... I don't think she was hurt at all."
"Somethin' like this, I reckon she's in quite a lot of pain just now," Spike said quietly.
"No way is it enough," Buffy said, then bit her lip. "Oh god." She covered her mouth with her hand.
Spike reached out to her again, but she flinched away from his touch, and he let his hand drop back to his side. "Right then. I'm off. I'll check in later." He brushed roughly past her and out.
It was just as well, he told himself bitterly as he legged it back to his crypt, he was hungry and cranky, and if the little bitch couldn't find it in her to be properly appreciative after coming to him for help, that was her own problem and good riddance.
But two bags of fresh A+ tossed back with a generous helping of Stoli and he found he had cooled down somewhat. She could hardly help feeling upset under the circumstances, and probably guilty, too. She and the pint-sized one should be home by now. He'd go by the house, see how everyone was doing.
He approached the front door with some trepidation. He hadn't liked the look on Buffy's face when she turned away from him tonight; it was just possible that she'd panicked enough over their little shagfest to have him disinvited from the place. But his right hand passed easily enough through the doorframe, and the rest of him soon followed.
The house was quiet, but a certain tension in the air prickled the hairs on the back of his neck. Spike made his way stealthily up the stairs. All of the bedrooms were dark behind their closed doors; he could hear muffled groans very faintly from the one Willow had shared with Tara. He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he ought to check up on the witch, but he wasn't sure if he should comfort or chastise her, and besides, he should look in on the Niblet first.
Dawn was sound asleep, snoring softly on her side, her injured arm in a bright purple cast. He sank slowly down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jog it and disturb her. She gave no sign that she was aware of his presence.
Her brow had been bandaged, but he could still smell the tantalizing fragrance of fresh blood beneath. Her throat glimmered invitingly under the moonlight. Spike swallowed and reached out to touch her ever so lightly: scratched cheek, bruised jaw, raw fingertips. So near. So utterly vulnerable.
*I feel safe now. With you.*
Her slender fingers were warm in his as he held her hand for a minute, wondering at the wave of tenderness that swept through him. Bloody hell. What was it about these Summers women that turned him into such a ponce?
Finally he decided he'd best leave her be. He could still hear the distressed sounds from the next room; perhaps he'd knock on the door and dispense a little sage advice about coping with withdrawal. Spike bent to press his lips gently to the girl's forehead in farewell, then stiffened, catching a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye.
He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing. He could just make out Buffy framed against the doorway. Realizing she had been discovered, she drew back, but he was up off the bed and out into the hall in one fluid movement that brought him right up against her taut form.
She stared defiantly up at him, sandwiched between his belly and the wall. "I thought I heard something," she accused in a low tone that kindled a warm glow below his belt.
Spike braced his arms on either side of her pretty little head and sneered, "Don't get your knickers in a twist, sweetheart, I was just checkin' on the Little Bit, is all. So don't flatter yourself that you had anythin' to do with my visit. Although, now that we're both here..." He leered at her a little, pressing forward so that his pelvis brushed up against her ridiculously flat stomach, fully expecting her to shove him away.
Somewhat to his surprise, Buffy touched the side of his face softly instead of backhanding him. "I wasn't sure what you were doing there at first," she muttered, confused, her brow wrinkling in a frown. "I came to tell you... to get out of this house."
"That what you want, Slayer?" he murmured, hope rising at the hesitation that trumpeted a weakness of will to be exploited without delay.
"It's not about what I want," she stammered, "it's about what's right..." Her hands wandered to his hips even as she went on, "Wanting you... is bad... like craving a double cappuccino after dinner when I know I'll be bouncing off the walls all night and probably end up with that icky caffeine aftertaste in my mouth, and okay, rambling here, but you know what I mean so why can't you be nice and just go away?"
"I'm not nice," he growled and bent down to press his lips to hers. Her hot little mouth opened in a belated gasp of protest, then widened hungrily to receive him, and she surged against him, warmth and musky fragrance filling his nostrils. Spike reached behind her with one arm to crush her wiry body against his own-
"Aw, *fuck*!" he yelped, recoiling violently from Buffy as the smell and sizzle of frying bacon filled the hall. He jammed his smoldering hand into his armpit, blinking back unmanly tears, as the Slayer let her cross clatter to the floor, her eyes huge.
The door of the master bedroom flew open, and Willow appeared, her face sickly pale and beaded with sweat. "Spike? Buffy?" She seemed to be holding on to the doorframe for support, but Spike had his own worries at the moment. "What's going on?"
Bloody cockteasing *bitch*. "Nothin'," he snarled, opening and closing his scarred hand experimentally and trying not to let his face betray his excruciating pain. "I was just leavin'."
But "No!" Buffy squawked, sidestepping swiftly to block his way to the stairs. "It was an accident, I swear! Besides, you just got here! You were," and here she gulped, flushing, as Willow stared from one to the other in confusion, "you were just coming. To my room, to um, talk."
Spike could feel his eyebrows crawling up into his hairline, but she seemed perfectly sincere in her dismay, and besides, the burning in his hand was rapidly being replaced by another kind of burn altogether. Buffy was staring at him, naked pleading in her wide eyes, and he realized that he was going to have to make up his mind fast.
"Uh, yeah, that's right," he agreed, and had the malicious pleasure of seeing Buffy close her eyes briefly in relief. "I was just... coming."
"Right," Buffy said, with a look that managed to mix equal parts gratitude and annoyance. "Sorry we woke you, Will. See you in the morning?"
"Right," Willow nodded weakly and wobbled back into her bedroom. Spike found himself following the Slayer into hers, biting back a grin at the way things had just played themselves out. The girl had a pair on her, all right. Either that or no sense at all. Because the chances of Willow remaining oblivious to their imminent activities were about the same as of him refusing to participate in them.
Buffy's room reeked of garlic; great garlands of the stuff adorned the windows and the top of the doorframe, as if that were any substitute for a genuine disinvitation. Spike, like many vampires, did avoid garlic as a rule, but mainly because it made the seduction and subsequent consumption of fastidious young ladies so much more difficult. Nothing like bad breath to make a hitherto eager young lass rethink her choice in entertainment for the evening. He opened his mouth to make some smartass remark along those lines, but the words never had a fair opportunity to escape it.
To kiss a Slayer was to drink distilled sunlight, an unbearably intense pleasure made the more intoxicating by the knowledge of his nearness to death. Even her skin scalded him. He read his own doom in her deadened eyes; he would do anything to hold her even as she devoured him like acid.
He had only a moment to wonder which of them was the moth and which, the flame.
Buffy didn't break the kiss, but her fingers found the neck of his t-shirt and tore it open even as he fumbled with his fly. She wriggled out of her jeans with astonishing alacrity, but then forgot about her turtleneck in favor of clutching at him to pull herself up to his eager cock. But her nails pierced the sore muscles in his shoulders, and his knees nearly buckled under them.
"Careful, love," Spike groaned against her mouth, "I still haven't quite recovered from th' other night."
"Wimp," Buffy sneered and shoved him down hard on the bed. He bounced only briefly before she brought what weight she had to bear solidly on his breast. Spike tried to reach for her, but she pinned him down by his biceps. She leaned forward to allow him one quick kiss, sliding her tongue into his mouth like a bolt of lightning, then pulled back, panting a little.
Now she slid slowly down his chest until her wet curls just brushed the tip of his cock. There she hovered, smirking and rubbing her clit delicately against him as he whimpered and shifted his pelvis. He bit his lip to keep from tossing any remaining dignity to the winds and begging her to have mercy and move downwards - just another half-inch would do it - or possibly even an inch, not to be greedy...
And just to make his situation even more unbearable, Buffy's breath was quickening, her eyes glazing over slightly, even as he writhed in an agony of desire beneath her. If she didn't take pity on him right now, he was going to fucking kill her.
Abruptly Buffy lifted herself a little and then settled back; her delicious heat engulfed him at last. Spike couldn't keep himself from crying out at the shimmering burn of it. Sex with vampires had never come close to this; it had always been cold and hard and sterile, not this miracle of scent and softness and flame.
But Buffy was already close to climax. She rode him roughly, her pupils swallowed up in her faraway gold-green eyes, and he thrust ferociously upwards, desperately trying to drive himself into her heart.
Suddenly she stiffened; Spike clamped his good hand over her mouth to stifle the incipient shriek, and she bit fiercely into his palm. Blood dripped down his wrist as she bucked wildly up and down, shuddering violently around him, until he could contain himself no longer. He came with a full-throated howl that he struggled in vain to smother against his own skin.
When Spike came to again, the Slayer was still astride him. Without relinquishing his shriveling cock, Buffy sank slowly down onto his chest and rested her head there, breath ragged and punctuated by sounds suspiciously like sobs. She seemed determined to keep her face averted, but at last Spike reluctantly slid out of her and rolled her over on her side. She tried to glare at him, but tears trickled from her eyes, and her lip trembled.
"You okay, Slayer?" he asked gruffly, brushing away a few stray strands of hair that were sticking to her flushed face.
"I'm alive," she said softly. Her voice shook in either shattering grief or incredulous bliss. "I'm alive."
Possibly both, Spike decided, and cautiously attempted to cradle her head against his shoulder. To his astonishment, instead of shoving him away with a cracked rib or two, she nestled up against his side and wrapped a warm arm around his waist. A long sigh tickled his collarbone as Buffy tucked her chin between breast and bicep.
Spike dozed off to the drowsy rhythm of her even breaths. His last thought was to wonder whether she'd bothered to close the blinds.
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